


Come home.

by hudders-and-hiddles (huddersandhiddles)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: John goes to a conference, Johnlock Roulette, Lonely Sherlock, M/M, Nude Photos, Porn with Feelings, Sexting, Texting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-18
Updated: 2016-01-18
Packaged: 2018-05-14 16:35:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5750335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/huddersandhiddles/pseuds/hudders-and-hiddles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>John has been gone less than thirty minutes before his text alert sounds, ringing out the familiar chime that signals a message from Sherlock. His lips twitch into a smile as he pulls his mobile from his pocket and taps on the screen.</i><br/><br/><i><span>     Come home.</span></i><br/> <br/> <br/>When John leaves for a medical conference, Sherlock tries to entice him back home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Come home.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Itsallfine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Itsallfine/gifts), [cakepopsforeveryone](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cakepopsforeveryone/gifts).



> Cakes and Lilo, we were just discussing this trope, so this is for you.
> 
>    
> Thanks to the ever-amazing, [darcylindbergh](http://archiveofourown.org/users/darcylindbergh/pseuds/darcylindbergh), for doing a quick beta on this for me. You keep me right. <3

John has been gone less than thirty minutes before his text alert sounds, ringing out the familiar chime that signals a message from Sherlock. His lips twitch into a smile as he pulls his mobile from his pocket and taps on the screen.

_Come home._

His chest tightens, squeezing snug and warm around his lungs at the sentiment buried in those two simple words.

_You know I can’t, love. I need these CPD credits. I’ll be home in two days._

The response comes almost immediately.

_Two days is too long. Come home._

John sighs--a soft, fragile sound swallowed by the steady drum of the rain on the windows and the train on the tracks--and swallows around the emotion knotting in his throat. The truth is that he hadn’t wanted to leave either, everything with Sherlock still too new, too precious, too perfect, and he worries that his absence will break the delicate bubble in which they’ve been living. It’s been less than three weeks since their first kiss, since the words slipped from Sherlock’s throat and wound themselves around John’s heart, since they pushed themselves together and pulled each other apart with lips and hands and tongues and breaths.

But this conference had been booked for months, and he had to go.

_I wish I could._

The response is inadequate. It doesn’t begin to cover the longing he feels to be back in Sherlock’s arms, in their bed, wrapped up in each other, whispering reverent words against the gentle dip of Sherlock’s stomach, the taut planes of his chest, the tender stretch of his thighs.

John shakes himself from the vision when his text alert sounds again, the distraction welcome. He’s on a train after all, with people all around him. He can’t be caught out with an erection like some teenage boy mid-wank-fantasy.

_I miss your face._

John runs his fingers through his hair, scraping hard down his scalp as he tries not to let his emotions run away with him. He’d never expected that Sherlock would be so easily sentimental, but Sherlock has been practically cavalier with his need to express his feelings for John now that he’s allowed, letting them slip out not only in words and not only in private, but in a million tiny ways that make John wonder how he could have ever once thought Sherlock incapable of love. It’s all there in the press of a hand to the small of his back as they leave a crime scene, in the pride in Sherlock’s voice when introducing him to a client, in the kettle already boiling when he trudges up to the flat after a long day at the surgery, in the silent smiles as their elbows bump while they clean their teeth before bed. Sherlock loves him and loves him and loves him, and though John’s only known that for three weeks, he already knows a lifetime would never be enough to learn the depth of that emotion--he knows because his love for Sherlock is rooted just as deep, curling around his bones and snaking into muscle and marrow alike.

_I miss yours._

He watches out the train window, seeing little but letting the verdancy of the landscape soothe the growing ache inside him, letting it quiet the piece of him that says he should have stayed home with Sherlock instead. He knows they can’t live their lives like this, never more than an arm’s reach away from each other, that they have to go separate places and do separate things, that they’ll drive each other mad if they don’t, but there’s still a terror there, lurking below the surface, scratching at them both. A fear that when they need to reach, they’ll come up clenching fistfuls of empty air. They’ve found and lost and found and lost one another so much that being apart for a day feels like it could so easily slip into being apart for another lifetime.

The next message that arrives is a photo, and John’s breath catches in his chest when he sees Sherlock’s face staring back at him. It’s only been half an hour. Can he really have forgotten how bloody gorgeous the man is in such a short time? He’s clearly in bed, even though it’s four in the afternoon, his hair a dark, messy halo against the crisp ecru of the pillow, one half of his mouth twisted into a soft, sad smile that makes John’s heart ache. But just as noticeable is all that the camera doesn’t capture. Those verdigris eyes are less brilliant, less penetrating through the lens, though no less beautiful. The sharp lines of those cheekbones are flatter, softer, a little less ethereal. There’s no hint of the bright citrus-and-herb scent of Sherlock’s shampoo or the clean, dusky-mild smell of his skin. Of the simple sound of his breathing or his heart beating a frantic staccato against his ribs where they press against John’s cheek. Of the feel of long fingers twined with John’s as they cross the street, sit together on the sofa, writhe against one another in bed.

Another message arrives.

_I showed you mine. You show me yours._

John laughs, the joy of the sound almost foreign in this little melancholy moment he’s allowed himself. He snaps a photo of his face with his mobile’s camera, his eyes still crinkled with the echoes of his laugh, his lips pulled into a smile that matches Sherlock’s, a little sad, a little longing, a little out-of-sorts. His gaze catches on the bags under his eyes, on the lines across his brow and around his mouth that seem to grow deeper every time he looks away, on the few remaining strands of hair that aren’t silver-pewter-grey. He sends the picture off with a sigh.

_Stop worrying, John. You’re gorgeous._

And he has to smile. Leave it to Sherlock to know what he’s thinking, even at such a distance.

Before he can reply, another message arrives. Another picture. Sherlock’s fingers tangled in his hair as he pushes it away from his forehead, the inviting stretch of arm and shoulder and neck, the hint of a firm pectoral muscle peeking out above the sheet, eyes closed, lashes a dark and luscious smudge against his cheek. It’s innocent enough--exposing hardly anything at all--but it’s intimate in a way that makes John’s cheeks flush with heat all the same.

Another message. Another picture. Sherlock hasn’t moved, but his eyes are open now, clear and bright in the afternoon sunlight filling their bedroom, piercing the camera with a look John knows all too well, a look that sends a spark shimmering along his spine to stir up the first embers of heat in his belly.

_Sherlock, I’m on a train._

_I know. Come home._

John shakes his head, readies his fingers to tap out another message that he wants to but he can’t, but another picture arrives first. A close-up. The deep dip of a cupid’s bow. The plush fullness of a lower lip. A peek of tongue swirled against the pad of one long finger.

Another spark, this one sharper and brighter than the first, and John has to push out a long, cooling breath before he replies.

_There are people all around me._

_And none of them me. Come home._

He doesn’t even try to type a reply this time, knowing that another photo will arrive before he can even begin, opening it immediately when it does. Sherlock’s head thrown back, his crown pressed into the pillow to expose the long line of his neck. His hand curled gently around the base of it, thumb to one side, three fingers on the other, his index finger splayed along the length of his throat, a shiny, wet trail in its wake where he dragged it down from his lips.

Before he’s had his fill of looking, a series of three more pictures arrives. A pink, peaked nipple, trapped between index and middle fingers. A patch of smooth skin mottled red and white all the way down to the dip of a belly button, lean abdominal muscles shifting and stretching underneath. A hand spread across a pointed hipbone, fingertips swirling against the edges of a thatch of russet curls.

John’s resolve is withering. Why is he here, on his way to a conference he never really wanted to attend, when he could be at home instead? It could be his hands pulling at nipples, caressing taut muscles, slipping down down down to drag through the curls between Sherlock’s legs. It could be him leaving cool, wet trails on hot, flushed skin. His lips, his tongue, his nose, his fingers. Covering Sherlock’s body with his own, the drag of their skin delicious as they move together and apart. Tasting the emotions seeping from Sherlock’s pores, the bright orange joy bubbling in the quirked corner of his mouth, the rich crimson desire swirling in the soft hitch of his hips, the bone-deep black loneliness slicing across the expanse of his back but growing lighter with every press of John’s lips, every quiet brush of his fingertips. Watching the ever-surprised wrinkle of Sherlock’s brow as John’s hand wraps around him, the intoxicating tremor that undulates down his spine as John strokes faster, the deep dig of teeth into his lush lower lip as he fights to hold on, to let go, to hold back, to explode, John’s name curling on his tongue, dissolving into the air like smoke, dark and diaphanous, as he comes.

The speakers on the train call out the name of the next stop, and John makes up his mind in an instant. He thinks of football statistics, of late nights doing paperwork for the Met, of Mycroft, to will away the plumpness in his cock, as he taps out a text.

 _Slow down, sweetheart._ _Take your time for me._

He’s already off the train by the time the response arrives.

_I’ll go as slow as I can. For you. Come home._

I am, John thinks desperately, as he rushes to buy a return ticket. His text alert chimes as he crosses back to the platform to await the next train back to London. With a look around to be sure that no one is near enough to see, he opens up the next picture. Fingertips dragging along the center of Sherlock’s sternum, proof that he’s doing as John asked and taking things slowly.

_Very good._

A spark of inspiration comes to him then.

_Don’t touch yourself until I tell you to. Can you do that for me?_

The reply is instant.

_Yes, John._

_Come home._

The train arrives, and John steps on with his overnight bag, settling down as far from other passengers as he can manage.

_You know I want to._

Sherlock’s response is another picture. Fingers tugging at a nipple again, but this shot wider, so that John can see the pull of muscles as Sherlock arches off the bed, the bend of his knees out-of-focus in the distance.

_Yes, just like that, love. Keep teasing yourself, but don’t touch yet._

The reply is a picture of Sherlock’s hand across his stomach, fingertips spread wide and digging into his skin as if trying to hold on to his control, a dark trail of hair growing blurry as it leads away from the camera, the head of Sherlock’s cock hovering just beyond what John can clearly see, this first fuzzy glimpse of it sending an excited tremor rattling through John’s chest.

_One stroke._

John can practically hear Sherlock’s whine in response, knowing that it will be hard for him to stop himself there but willing him to last until John can get home and finish this properly.

The next photo catches him by surprise, though he really should have expected it. Sherlock’s hand wrapped tight around his cock, his foreskin pulled down to expose the ruddy tip, his thumb brushing through the wetness there. John’s own erection twitches in response, and he sits on his free hand to keep from touching himself.

Another picture. Sherlock’s tongue licking a broad stripe up his thumb, the same thumb that he just smeared through his pre-come. And for the first time John wonders if he himself is going to last long enough to make it back to the flat, the desire to slip off to the loo and take himself in hand growing stronger by the minute. Instead he marshals his resolve and forces his eyes closed, letting the steady hum of the train and the deep in-out of his breath calm him.

_You’re doing so well, Sherlock. Can you hold out a little longer?_

The train slides onward toward the city, but the ride seems interminable, knowing that Sherlock is waiting at the other end, naked and lonely and writhing with need.

Sherlock’s response is a photo of the sheets, clenched tight in his fist, as he tries to hold on to his control. Just a little longer, John thinks.

Another image. Long toes curled against the urge to touch. The voice over the speakers announces their impending arrival at the train station, and John nearly wilts with relief. Almost there.

He stands and moves eagerly toward the doors, his erection pressing awkwardly against the front of his trousers, though his coat at least keeps it from being visible to those around him. His text alert chimes again as the doors open, and he can’t stop himself from opening the message as he spills out on to the crowded platform, not caring anymore who might see.

Sherlock’s brow and nose are crinkled in concentration, an index finger crooked between his teeth as he bites down on a knuckle. The sheer desperation of it pulls a small, choked cry from John’s throat. His heart pounds harder against his ribs, soon soon soon soon, but he wants nothing more than to be there now to soothe the ache written all over Sherlock’s face, to slip his tongue into the velvet warmth of Sherlock’s mouth and taste the desire there, to slide and squeeze and stroke until they’re both shivering. Spent. Sated. Settled.

John hurries through the station, and as he steps onto the tube platform, his mobile chimes again. He takes a deep breath to steady himself before opening the message. Two pictures. The first a glistening, slick pool on Sherlock’s belly, his fingers trailing lazily through the thin liquid. The other Sherlock’s teeth biting hard into his lip, his shoulder twisted forward and down to accommodate the deep stretch of his arm out of the frame, and John knows where those fingers are trailing right now, down past Sherlock’s cock, over his bollocks, down down down to circle and press and push slowly inside.

_Christ yes. I wish I was there right now._

He barely manages not to sprint the four steps into the tube carriage when it arrives. Four minutes. Four long, trying minutes until his stop. A full minute ticks by before Sherlock’s reply comes.

_I wish you were, too. Come home._

I’m trying, John thinks, trying to will time to move faster somehow.

     _I want you here, John. Come home._

_I know, sweetheart. I know. I want to be there._

The corner of his eyes prickle with how desperately he wants to be there, and it’s ridiculous, he knows. But Sherlock wants him, Sherlock needs him, and after years of denying themselves, of falling apart instead of together, of leaving and leaving and leaving, there is no part of John that could refuse Sherlock this, no part of him that wants to refuse Sherlock anything ever again.

_Please._

_Please, John._

John wipes furiously at his eyes and stumbles out at this stop. He doesn’t know if Sherlock is begging John to come home or just begging to come, but either way he shoves the phone into his trouser pocket and all but runs up out of the station and into the daylight, walking as fast as he can back to the flat. His mobile chimes again just as he slides the keys into the door, but he ignores it in favor of rushing up the stairs, pulling off his coat and shirt as he goes, dropping them in a heap just inside the sitting room door along with his overnight bag. His belt ends up draped over the back of his chair, his shoes left near the table, his socks in the hallway, where he stops at the choked-off rasp of his own name mixed with panting, breathy moans slipping out the crack in the bedroom door.

Pushing the door wide, he steps past the threshold to find Sherlock exactly as he imagined, spread out on his back in the middle of the bed, naked and flushed and lovely, eyes squeezed shut tight, knees bent and spread wide, feet slipping against the sheets, the fingers of his right hand pumping tortuously slowly in and out, his left fisted in the sheets near his hip as he struggles not to touch himself, his mobile forgotten a few inches away. It’s a mark of how far gone he is that the most observant man in the world hasn’t even noticed John entering the room, and John’s heart lurches at the thought that he’s the only one who gets to see Sherlock like this, wanton and keening and lost in sensation.

“Oh, god, you’re so good, love. So good,” John says softly, and Sherlock must think he’s imagining it because he doesn’t even open his eyes, his only response to moan more loudly than before. It’s only when John pulls off his trousers and pants, dropping them at the foot of the bed, and crawls between Sherlock’s knees, the mattress dipping under the pressure, that Sherlock finally registers the reality of John’s presence, his eyes snapping open, dark and unfocused, to meet John’s in the dimming light of an early sunset. John’s gaze holds his for only a moment before he allows it to travel down across Sherlock’s lips swollen from the pressure of his teeth, over his neck and chest and belly blushing pink and glistening with sweat, along the length of his cock twitching with need and the heavy weight of his bollocks, down to where he has three fingers buried in his arse, and then slowly, slowly back up again, taking in the heave of his ribs and the tremble of his shoulders, the twitch of his jaw and the flutter of his lashes, thinking the sky glittering with millions of stars against an inky, moonless night in the Afghan mountains has nothing on the beauty of Sherlock Holmes fucking himself in their bed, moaning John’s name in a voice gone hoarse with need.

John reaches out his right hand and smears it through the pool of lube on Sherlock’s stomach, leaving a trail of goosepimples in its wake, the remaining liquid rolling down Sherlock’s side as he writhes against the fleeting pressure, keening and whimpering at the lack of contact.

“Shhhhh,” John whispers, stroking his left hand soothingly up and down Sherlock’s thigh as he slicks himself with the right. “I’m here, Sherlock. I’m home.” He slides his hand down to Sherlock’s wrist, up his forearm, past the bend in his elbow, and Sherlock takes the hint and slips his fingers free. John continues trailing up up up until he can plant his hand into the mattress just above Sherlock’s shoulder, leaning in to press a kiss to those already parted lips, tasting not only the bubbly orange joy he expects on Sherlock’s tongue but also the deep, cool blue of relief. It isn’t just sexual, he knows. It isn’t just John here to fulfill the needs of Sherlock’s body. It’s John, here, in Sherlock’s life, where he’s supposed to be, where he always should have been. It’s John coming home because Sherlock asked him to, because Sherlock needed him to.

Sherlock kisses him long and deep and tender, as if it’s been days, not little more than an hour, and John feels something loosen inside him, a little knot of anxiety that he’s carried for years, tied up tight with strings of _he’ll get bored of you_ and _you’ll never be enough_ and _he’ll never love you the way you love him_. He doesn’t have to worry that the delicate bubble of perfection that has surrounded them these last few weeks will break because even if it does, they’ll both be there to pick up the pieces.

He trails his tongue down Sherlock’s throat, tracing the path his finger had left in the photo, as he presses inside, sinking in slow and steady until his hips sit flush against Sherlock’s skin. His lips find a nipple and pull, and the arch of Sherlock’s back twists his body, John’s cock sliding fractionally out and then in again as Sherlock writhes beneath him. When John slips a still-slick hand between them and glances a finger across the wet head of Sherlock’s cock, Sherlock nearly sobs, his body curling away from the bed as he seeks out more. “Please,” he manages, the sound tight and high in his throat, more whine than word. “John, ple-” John rolls his hips out and back again at the same time that he wraps his fingers around Sherlock’s cock and gives it a long stroke, and Sherlock falls back on the bed, tension and relief undulating through him in waves as John fucks him in deep, slow rolls of his hips that push Sherlock’s cock in and out of the tight circle of his fist.

John bends forward and kisses him again, and Sherlock’s mouth is a rainbow--orange joy and blue relief and crimson desire dancing on his tongue, honey-yellow hope and emerald trust and lilac affection smeared across his lips, the black-to-steel-grey of fading loneliness that will someday pale to dove, to ash, to silver, to the sparkling platinum of matching wedding bands that mean never alone, never again, hiding just behind his teeth. There are no more words, just the soft, slick sounds of tongues and sliding skin, and when Sherlock comes, John’s name is less than smoke; it’s the shimmering haze of a mirage, barely a disturbance in the air, there but for a fleeting moment before it fades into the dusk, and John follows it into the dark.

When their breaths gentle and their hearts slow, Sherlock looks at John in wide-eyed wonder. “You came home,” he whispers, and John dips his head to kiss him soft and sweet.

“Always.”

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on tumblr as [hudders-and-hiddles](http://hudders-and-hiddles.tumblr.com).


End file.
